


Never Enough, Can't Let You Go

by craptain_jerk



Category: Free!
Genre: Angst, Desperate Devastated Smut, M/M, Makoto cries a lot, One-Sided Matsuoka Rin/Yamazaki Sousuke, One-sided Nanase Haruka/Tachibana Makoto, Probably More Angst Than Is Entirely Necessary But Whaddya Gonna Do, Rough Sex, Unrequited Love, basically Rin & Haru get married and Yamazaki & Makoto chase away the pain by getting together, it's gotta hurt so it doesn't hurt y'know??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craptain_jerk/pseuds/craptain_jerk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can't think of him that way anymore," the words are slow. Deliberate and firm. But beneath the misleading strength in his voice, there is a quiet sadness that renders the plainly-spoken truth a pained whisper. Makoto goes rigid, his chest gripped by icy fingers, and drags his desperately-dodgy gaze to meet the other's. Sousuke's brow is knit together in austere appraisal, his features stiff and without comfort, but his eyes are troubled. Unlike his face, they are not steeled. The depths are not stable — they are tumultuous and pained. And without consciously connecting the dots, Makoto understands. He realizes precisely why he can see the concealed hurting just beneath the surface of those cold, blue-green pools. Why the pain was not unfamiliar, and why it couldn't be hidden. Why he can detect the unspoken whisper in Sousuke's cogent declaration. He understands, as Sousuke wipes his tears away with his thumbs, that it is a mirrored torment in those depths. It is the same agony, tucked poorly away. They had both stood there that morning, smiling for their best friend, and now they were here, desperate and rough — seeking the same, devastating gratification that would leave them only emptier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Enough, Can't Let You Go

How many times had he imagined it? How his laugh would fall upon the air, uninhibited, as he pulled Haru down onto the blankets. How the beautiful boy would tumble against him willingly, all graceful limbs and cool calm. How there would be so much time to appreciate every minute detail; to study every square inch with his fingertips, then his mouth, until he was drawing the sweetest sounds from Haru's lips; gentle sighs and breathy indecencies. There would be a gradual mount of momentum, hitching steadily further and further as Makoto spent each moment exploring new paths of adoration...  
  
The door thrown open with decided abandon, the stumbling progress across the bedroom floor, interrupted as they parted only long enough to pull their shirts over their heads. _This was not how it was supposed to be._ The alarm clock knocked hastily from the bedside stand as Makoto was shoved unceremoniously back. This wasn't his ideal imagining. None of this fit — not the way he toppled back when the bend of his knees met the bed, nor the heavy weight that settled immediately upon him, seeking and desperate as it pinned him to the mattress. But it _had_ to be like this, Makoto thought, as a pair of broad hips dipped against his own. His eyes slipped closed with a shaky inhale as he grazed the chest above him with his nails, encouraging even as his heart twisted. It had to be like this, because this _wasn't_ Haru. Makoto _needed_ it to be wrong. Needed it to be fast, hard, and unforgiving, to chase the tender sighs and adoring caresses from his mind.

  
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He'd smiled at the beautiful ceremony and played his part as well as any best man possibly could. He'd been happy for Haru, truly, as he watched him exchange vows with Rin before their friends and family. His best friend had been positively exultant — warmth scripted plain across his soft face and happiness bright and unbridled in his eyes. Makoto had stood beside him dutifully, beaming with his own merriment at the union. But he hadn't lasted an hour at the wedding reception, before it all became too pressing and unbearable. Until his smiles became harder and harder, then downright impossible, to force. He'd excused himself with a half-truth about not feeling well, and clawed his way to solitude so he could yell and cry; tearing at his suit and screaming in his car to relieve the emptiness that was beginning to suffocate him. He was a wreck when he entered the first bar, bleary-eyed from his ranting and seeking a quick, distracting fix — not caring if he found it in a bottle or a body. In his withered state, he hadn't expected much attention, and so was thoroughly surprised when another man sidled beside him before he'd even made it through his first drink. He'd then been completely caught off-guard, when he looked up and found the man to be Yamazaki Sousuke — the same person he'd stood across from earlier that day; best man of the other groom. 

"Don't you have a reception you should be attending?" Sousuke asked flatly, his voice sober and steady. Makoto — once he'd wiped the surprise from his face — looked away and raised his glass to his lips. "Couldn't stomach... all of it," he responded, though he wasn't as successful at keeping his tone even and deadpan. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sousuke slowly nod, and felt his blue-green gaze sweep over him just twice. "Oh... I see," Sousuke said in the same, flat tone, and Makoto felt an intuitive part of him dip with cold dread. As if he'd somehow been found out, even though that was impossible. He turned back to other man and Sousuke met his gaze squarely; an eyebrow quirking as Makoto took another indulgent draw from his bottle. "Yeah, sure you do. You flaked out, too, so what's your excuse?"

Sousuke didn't react to the skepticism in Makoto's less-than-friendly tone, but only searched his face for a brief moment longer before dropping his gaze. "Probably much the same as yours," he responded finally, spinning the bottle in his palm. "It's a bitter thing to swallow," A corner of his mouth tugged into an absent half-smile and when he lifted his eyes again, Makoto felt his instinctive thorniness yield to the dull emptiness in his chest; the ache there threatening to cleave back open as his resistance thinned. He meant to scoff as he looked away, but the noise that rolled from his lips was more of a sigh. "Yeah, it really is," he agreed complacently, slumping further over the bar as his heart clenched with a coldness that sent daggers of ice through his veins.  "I need distracting."

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  
Sousuke's lips find the hollow of Makoto's throat and he moans low for him; can _feel_ more than hear the answering hum of approval from somewhere deep in the other man's chest, before he nips at the skin of Makoto's collarbone and earns a more earnest whimper. He cants his hips into the agonizing drag of Sousuke's pelvis against his own, while his hands skim down the hard dips and planes of the man's abdomen. Goosebumps trail after his featherlight touch and Sousuke's skin practically crawls beneath his fingertips. As the larger man mouths sloppily from his neck, down his chest, and back up, Makoto makes quick work of his belt and pants, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband and following around to the curve of his ass, pulling him an impossible fraction closer even as he sneaks the garments down his thighs. Sousuke presses a relieved sigh against the underside of his jaw, but the soft noise hitches into one infinitely more fraught as Makoto immediately sneaks a hand between them.  
  
There's a disconnect between his body and mind as he wraps his fingers around Sousuke's heavy cock; an entire world nestled between the corporeal pleasure and his thoughts. Because he's imagined this, too. His hands sweeping over Haru's skin. Reveling in those quiet, needy whispers as he stroked him between them. The trembling in Haru's lean arms as it became increasingly difficult to hold himself over Makoto. He would smile up into that beautiful, shameless face; would crane forward and press a kiss just beneath his eye, only to coax those brilliant blue depths — blown dark with unconcealed want — open. He would feel no fear as he drowned in the ocean there.  
  
Makoto, yearning for blue, blinks open his eyes to search the face above him. But the gaze he meets is the wrong color. Sousuke's eyes are not the ocean's deep, tranquil depths, but the agitated glimmer of light glinting off its turbulent surface — they are too pale, too green. Upon that unfamiliar face, there is steeliness where Haru is soft; shadows and lines where there should be none. His eyebrows are knit down, his visage stern and studying; as if there's something he doesn't understand playing across the face beneath him. There is much that Makoto doesn't recognize in those hard, uncharted features; much hidden. Sousuke's lips part, and visible concern flits cautiously across his face — Makoto sees it, and panics. He pinches his own eyes shut again and fists his hand tighter around the leaking cock between them; exchanging whatever solicitous words might have been spoken for a stuttering hiss. He doesn't want him to speak. He doesn't want his concern. Only when Sousuke drops forward enough to press his lips to the corner of Makoto's mouth, does he relax. He slackens his clenched jaw and meets the wayward kiss with a turn of his head; moving his lips pliantly against Sousuke's as the man's concern is smoothed away and forgotten.  
  
Makoto twists his hand teasingly over the cockhead beneath his palm then intentionally slackens his grip; smirking against the mouth upon his lips as it parts with a rumbling hum of disapproval. Sousuke acts quickly, pulling away the weakened touch and pressing his hips down hard against Makoto's still-clothed crotch, seeking lost friction as he forces his mouth open to plunge his tongue inside. Sousuke kisses him until it becomes painful — until they're both panting with strain — before withdrawing completely to stand and step out of his pants. Makoto remains still, catching his breath, and sucks in a shaky inhale when Sousuke crawls back to him.  
  
Deft fingers work his pants open and down his thighs, and Makoto moans with relief when his erection springs free. He kicks the garments from his legs, and his head tips back as Sousuke pulls him further down the bed and presses his tongue to a hard nipple. He mouths attentively over Makoto's chest, hands ghosting over his ribs and to his hips, as he noses down his stomach and waist, kissing and sucking a quick, determined path before settling close to Makoto's inner thigh. Tongue darting over his lips, Makoto hums absently, carding his hand through Sousuke's hair as a tongue draws slowly up the length of his cock. A mouth sinks around him and the breath shudders from his body while his fingers fist in the dark locks — he feels so good, so warm, and it takes a tremendous amount of effort not to rock up as Sousuke sucks him in deeper. 

How many times had he imagined this, too, with Haru's name on his lips as he stroked himself at night? The torturing hum in the other man's throat as he pressed the flat of his tongue to the head of Makoto's cock, before swallowing him further and hollowing his cheeks. How he'd look up at Makoto through dark eyelashes, twisting and bobbing while the other man babbled absent adoration; his lidded eyes dancing with spikes of self-indulgence as he scissored himself open with one hand, matching the thrust of his preparing fingers to the pumping of his other hand over Makoto. He'd allow himself to be drawn to the very precipice of release, before pushing Haru away and capturing his swollen lips. Tasting himself on the other man's tongue as he eased him back, he'd kiss him breathless before pulling away to hover over him; pausing to drink in the beautiful man beneath him — to intoxicate himself with affection as he counted all the tiny things about him that needed adored. Haru would stare up at him, watching with that patient calm; open and generous beneath his fond, sweeping gaze. He'd touch soft fingers to Makoto's cheek, and the other man would shake the stupor to pepper his face with kisses; voicing just how much he loved him, how perfect he was, and how much he meant to him, between happy laughs.

"I love you," Makoto breathes, the words quiet and broken as he — distracted — bucks his hips off the bed. Sousuke chokes beneath him, pulls off with a splutter, and Makoto's eyes fly open. Sousuke draws himself up and Makoto flounders for an apology. His mouth opens as the larger man crawls back over him, but when he meets those hard eyes, his lips open and close silently; unable to work around the choking sob lodged somewhere in his throat. He pushes weakly at the chest above him, head shaking side to side as he breaks. But the other man doesn't budge and while Makoto bids the tears from surfacing, his face is captured and stilled between two large palms. He doesn't want to open his eyes but he does, and everything gives a painful clench as the tears slide warm down his cheeks. He squirms, wanting to wipe them away... to curl in on himself... to hide, but Sousuke is unrelenting. He keeps him trapped, and the feel of that calm, steely gaze fixed patiently upon him is enough to make Makoto squirm harder, trying to look anywhere but.

"You can't think of him that way anymore," the words are slow. Deliberate and firm. But beneath the misleading strength in his voice, there is a quiet sadness that renders the plainly-spoken truth a pained whisper. Makoto goes rigid, his chest gripped by icy fingers, and drags his desperately-dodgy gaze to meet the other. Sousuke's brow is still knit together in austere appraisal, his features stiff and without comfort, but his eyes are troubled. Unlike his face, they are not steeled. The depths are not stable — they are tumultuous and pained. And without consciously connecting the dots, Makoto understands. He realizes precisely why he can see the hurt concealed just beneath the surface of those cold, blue-green pools. Why the pain was not unfamiliar, and why it couldn't be hidden. Why he can detect the unspoken whisper in Sousuke's cogent declaration. He understands, as Sousuke wipes his tears away with his thumbs, that it is a mirrored torment in those depths. It is the same agony, tucked poorly away. They had both stood there that morning, smiling for their best friend, and now they were here, desperate and rough — seeking the same, devastating gratification that would leave them only emptier. Anything to chase and eclipse the pain, even for just a moment.  
  
Makoto realizes this in the space of a second, but there is no sinking feeling of revelation. He does not ask. He does not need affirmation. He simply breathes Sousuke's earlier words — "Oh, I see," — and blinks his eyes closed, pinching them tight as tears rise behind them again and a rekindled searing of ache rips through him. He can feel the angry wail build in his chest and tear up his throat, but he bites it back by clenching his jaw. "Why were we never enough?" He grits out, tucking his chin to his chest.  
  
_We_ , not I. Sousuke's face stiffens as he realizes he, too, has been found out, but he does not attempt a rebuttal. There is a long moment, filled only by Makoto's shaky breathing, in which he's allowed to contemplate a response... but he is unable to find one. It is not an unfamiliar question... it is one he has asked himself many times before... but still he can not answer. His face does not soften as he tips Makoto's chin back from its bow and when those emerald-green eyes slit half-open, they're decidedly vacant. There's a painstaking pause — a split-second that seems to slow, then elongate — in which Makoto stares blankly forward, visibly emptying himself and allowing something similar to (but not quite as kind as) acceptance still his pain. He levels a square look at the man hovered above him, and even as Sousuke stifles an abrupt ache at the _nothing_ Makoto's masked himself with, he smears a thumb lightly over his lips.   
  
"I do not know," he breathes finally, and observes the physical effort it takes for Makoto to keep the words from wounding — it twitches in his jaw and pulls infinitesimally at the corners of his lips; his eyelids flutter, but he wills them from closing. The glassy, green depths harden impossibly further and the sharp, determined glint that flits across them is Sousuke's only warning before Makoto's hand dusts up over his collarbone, trails behind his neck, and threads into his hair. He's pulled down forcefully, and Makoto thrusts up against him as he smashes his mouth to his own. The contact rekindles the cooling heat pooled in Sousuke's body and he responds eagerly, breathing sharp through his nose as he shoves hungrily into the other man's mouth; pulling him flush against his chest and rolling them both over.   
  
Makoto falls sidelong, clawing forward as far as he can manage with Sousuke's hands trapping him by his thighs; he drapes himself over the bedside and tugs open the drawer of his table. He only just manages to pluck out a small bottle before Sousuke reels him back eagerly, biting back a moan when Makoto settles upon his lap with a punishing roll of his hips. He spreads his hands across Makoto's abdomen and chest as the other man coats his own fingers with lube, then captures one of the exploring hands to do the same. He strokes lazily over Sousuke's dick, and he bucks forward in response; shivering at the cold touch, even as his own hands brush down Makoto's back and over the curve of his ass. Makoto leans forward for him, lips parting with anticipation when Sousuke kneads at his cheeks and then spreads them to drag a slick finger across his hole. His breathing skips, his hand tightens over Sousuke's dick, and Sousuke watches as an entirely new color of red rises in his cheeks; a whole new level of wanting and ache. Grinning, he sucks his lower lip between his teeth, watching the yearning flicker like flames across Makoto's features as he circles around his entrance again. 

"Please," Makoto breathes, leaning further over Sousuke to press his lips against the other man's forehead, before threading a fist through his dark hair to tug his head back and give him easier access to his throat. Sousuke bucks up into his hand and Makoto mouths around the bob of his Adam's apple when he keens a soft whine. Driven now by a sense of urgency, a finger pushes into him and Makoto tenses around the sudden intrusion. But the discomfort lessens as Sousuke works it slowly in and out, crooking and twisting to make room for another. When he adds a second, Makoto rocks back into the painful stretch eagerly; not allowing himself time to adjust as he sucks at Sousuke's jaw and twists his hand appreciatively over his dick. Sousuke rolls into the touch, but before he can begin spreading his fingers and preparing Makoto further, the other man straightens and stills his movements with a hand on his arm.   
  
"That's good enough," he breathes, and his voice is already thin and strained; his gaze heavy as he blinks down at Sousuke.  
  
It isn't. But this was supposed to hurt.

Makoto watches surprise flicker across the face beneath him, chased by uncertainty, and he thinks for a moment that Sousuke might need reassured. But as he reaches for the words to convince him, the other man's mouth draws firm and he visibly steadies. Perhaps he decides he doesn't care after all, Makoto hopes. He doesn't want Sousuke's worry or his concern. He doesn't need gentle or slow. This wasn't love... it wasn't how it was supposed to be. It couldn't ever be what he imagined or yearned for, and a mimicry would hurt far beyond anything his body could heal. 

Sousuke obliges, his face hardening as he eases his fingers free and rolls Makoto back under him with one swift movement. Before he can settle upon him, however, Makoto is frantically shifting; elbowing Sousuke off of him enough so he can turn and position himself upon his hands and knees. He doesn't want to face him, and look into the wrongness of his eyes or the unfamiliarity of his face. He doesn't want this to be any more personal than sex had to be — Makoto only wants to be filled, to be fucked, and to forget. He holds his breath and wills his body — instinctively tensed with anticipation — to relax. But despite his attempts, he still breathes too sharp when Sousuke's broad hands settle over his hips. His eyes widen at the first, teasing suggestion of pressure at his entrance, and he can feel his muscles already tighten with protest.

When a tense moment passes and the other man remains frustratingly-still, Makoto fears he'll have to reassure Sousuke after all. His mouth drops open, breathing harsh as his brows knit down and the question forms on his tongue. But as the first word leaves his parted lips, Sousuke thrusts into him — hard and cruel, just like Makoto wants — and his world is whittled down to a searing pain that rings his vision with white. There's a deafening swell in his hearing... a cutting flame through his body... and when the pain ebbs enough for him to see and hear once more, he catches only the whimpering taper of his own shocked outcry. He's colder than he was, his skin slicked with a new sheen of sweat, and simultaneously warmer as the pain whips violently around him, not yet yielding to pleasure. Bent trembling over him, Sousuke's body is tensed in its own torture, and they both have to catch their haggard breath as Makoto adjusts around the thick cock buried within him. 

Sousuke eventually straightens and pulls out with a slow, agonizing drag only to drive himself back in, and Makoto drops from his hands and onto his forearms, breath sharpening into a hiss. He repeats the torturing action once.. twice.. until Makoto's mewling for something more with his head ducked forward and his breath coming in quiet, flushed gasps. With the pain dulling, becoming pleasure, he needs harder and quicker. And with a terse noise, Sousuke concedes — quickly mounting his pace to one both devastating and deep. His fingers dig bruises into Makoto's hips, and Makoto's nails bite painful crescents into his palms as he curls his hands into fists. It's hard and rough — unforgiving and ravaging, if only for the shared goal of completely driving all thought from their minds. They're both seeking the same escape, and Makoto leans gratefully back into every plunge; keening shamelessly when Sousuke plasters himself to his back and buries his teeth into his shoulder. There's fire in his stomach and flames licking at his cheeks. He's engulfed in heat, burning alive complacently, and riding the fervor higher and higher. When one of Sousuke's hands reaches to wrap around his neglected, aching cock, Makoto tosses his head back and unravels; his tongue loosening around a collection of sharp, clipped curses. 

"Sous—" Makoto mewls the name, reeling and reaching; seeking purchase on anything to keep him grounded.  
  
" _Yamazaki_ ," Sousuke cuts him off, the throaty growl too raspy; too quick. He presses his face into the space between Makoto's neck and shoulder and, even with his senses and thoughts splintering further with every thrust, Makoto's calmly conscious of how hard the other man is clenching his jaw. He feels bared teeth and a curled lip pressed flat against his skin; the furthest thing possible from an adoring kiss and just what Makoto wants. He articulates his appreciation with senseless whimpers and gasps, but when Sousuke shoves him from his forearms and further into the mattress, shifting his angle, Makoto breaks and his mouth forms around a series of sharp, accentuated moans. He can feel the burning tension coiling to a peak in his groin, his body aching with sheer desperation as every muscle tightens. His babbling pants become pleading sobs as Sousuke's quickened pace, growing increasingly erratic, drives him higher and higher; each gasp shallower and sharper than the one before as he draws upon that sweet, shuddering summit.  
  
" _Please_ ," Makoto begs open-mouthed, wrecked and yearning, anguished with the proximity of his release, "Ya—ma— _Yamaz-_!" The remaining syllables are stolen from him, along with his breath, as Sousuke throws an arm across his chest and pulls him hard against him; pulls them both up as he releases and buries himself with a handful of deep, deliberate thrusts directly where Makoto needs them. He nuzzles his face further up Makoto's neck, brushing his lips behind his ear as the other man jerks against him and spasms around him; crying now with his own relief. It is a moment, both eternal and brief, blessed with complete alleviation — for an ethereal instant, there is nothing but the blinding surge of satiation and a pleasant, featherlight descent. When it ends, everything is heavy — the weight of Makoto still held securely in Sousuke's arms... the heaving lungs in his chest... the fatigue in his muscles, only just beginning to register... even his mind is heavy with the sticky drowsiness that follows a hard-earned orgasm. There would be a heaviness in Makoto's chest, too, that was inevitable — but for that stretching moment, his heart was too concerned with the satisfied hum spread throughout his body to hurt.

For a moment longer, they only pant against one another; permitting themselves that small window necessary to return to the distant reality around them. A pause, for the blinding white to fade and the world to bleed slowly back. Finally, Makoto lifts his head from where he'd let it drop against the arm still across his chest, suddenly too conscious of the sticky body still flush against his back. Sousuke's face is pressed into his shoulder, but when Makoto turns his head and brushes a cheek against the man's damp hair, he draws an unsteady inhale and stirs. Unexpectedly, he purses his lips gingerly to Makoto's burning skin, and — lacking the energy, and perhaps the desire, to brook dissent — he leans instinctively into the gentle gesture. He's eased back to the bed and Sousuke carefully peels apart their sticky, sweat-slicked bodies. Makoto whimpers weakly at the abrupt absence within him and, when he rolls wincingly upon his back, becomes painfully aware of the soreness seeping angrily into every one of his abused muscles. His body throbs with ache. And even as he begins counting every physical protest, he grows reluctantly conscious of the emptiness already drawing upon his hollowing chest. His heart hasn't yet slowed from its rapid hammering and already there's a dull pain spreading there; a blossoming dissatisfaction, rearing back to battle against the short-lived respite granted by physical gratification. It settles in before he's even caught his breath.

Sousuke shifts beside him, turning away as he sits up and throws his legs over the side of the bed. His recovery doesn't take long and then he's standing — the creak of his weight leaving the bed twisting the knife of ache (indistinguishable between relief and sorrow) further into Makoto's chest. It's a cold, yawning emptiness — the space in his heart built and reserved for one person, and for years fitted with warmth and longing. For so long, Makoto had acclimated himself to the acceptance that Haru could never occupy that space — that he would never cross the threshold of that home Makoto had built in his chest — but still the reservation remained. He was supposed to be prepared for today, but he wasn't — it _hurt_ , and while Sousuke had succeeded in quieting that ache with their desperate climb of need, the pain throbbed once more within him, stronger than ever; a sharp torture that flared hotter than the physical tension still screaming in his body.

With his face pulled into a subtle grimace and his eyes slid shut, Makoto reaches up to smooth at his chest, rubbing absently at where it's being cleaved in two. He is almost startled when the bed gives another groan as Sousuke — partially-clothed — lowers himself back on its edge. Makoto turns slowly to gaze at his back and, as he studies him and the way he's doubled over himself with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, it occurs to him that perhaps Sousuke hadn't turned away to excuse himself from having to comfort Makoto... or to hastily make his leave before he had to force some empathetic gesture... but to hide his own hurt. To let the agony run its course across his hard features until he could lock it away once more; cleaning himself up and pulling his clothes back on just to allow himself that privacy. If they had been different people, Makoto might have reached out and pressed his fingers to the man's bent figure; comfort and concern instilled with just a silent, simple touch. But he only watches as Sousuke scrubs both hands through his hair and clutches at the back of his neck. While they knew one another's pain, they did not know each other. He could not see through him, did not know how to reach him, and was lost for the words needed to soothe the very same ache he himself struggled against.

 "Is it enough?" Sousuke asks, and his voice is dead — the question soft-spoken and empty. He turns his head, not looking at Makoto but angled just enough to gauge the man from his peripheral. From the limited glimpse of his features, Makoto can see a downcast gaze, empty and soft to match the quiet voice. His face is void of its early austerity, and the sight of that muted pain coupled with those lethal words, draws tears to Makoto's already-puffy eyes. His vision swims and they bubble over when he blinks, but he wipes them away and sits up to find his shucked shirt and underwear. As he wipes himself down, the question stirs heavily within him and he allows it to tear him apart silently. Sousuke, perhaps not expecting an answer at all, remains unmoving. When he's somewhat decent and there's nothing left to busy himself with, Makoto tosses his shirt away and gazes down at his hands, limp and cradling one another in his lap. "No," he responds decidedly, and it's a heavy word that — despite being just above a quiet breath — occupies the entire room. 

Sousuke slowly nods, before turning and crawling back onto the sheets. It's almost a devastating thing when Makoto lays back — intentionally facing himself away — and Sousuke settles an arm over him without hesitation. He draws Makoto close, back pressed against his chest, and exhales a weighty, broken breath. "I know it isn't," he whispers, and Makoto shudders against him; curling into himself. Even as he clasps his hand over the one Sousuke holds against the flat plane of his chest, he thinks to tell him he should leave. He thinks he shouldn't even have tears left to cry. But he doesn't say anything and he doesn't push him away. He doesn't refuse the tenderness... the empathy. Instead, Makoto simply lets himself be held — lets Sousuke fit his face into the space between his neck and shoulder once more; breath soothing the sting from his earlier ministrations. He'd always imagined how restfully Haru would fit against him. How _right_ it would be, with the smaller man's sleeping breaths ghosting over his skin. This was not the same — it was a comfort, bittersweet. With his eyes pinched shut, Makoto rolls over to face Sousuke and the other man lets him squirm down until Makoto's hiding his face against his chest and curling his fingers desperately into the fabric of his shirt. He wraps around him completely, enveloping him in a tight embrace that he knows will break him even as it keeps him pieced together. He presses his mouth to Makoto's hair as he shudders again, and relaxes around him only after the other man stops trembling. 

As Sousuke settles more heavily with his chin resting atop Makoto's head, Makoto blinks open his swollen eyes to gaze emptily forward, past the broad chest he's held against and into nothing. "They are happy... what more could we want?" Sousuke questions, and while his words are firm and steady, Makoto knows there's ache behind them; knows Sousuke is not asking him only, but himself as well. Convincing himself, too. 

"I want him to be happy with me," Makoto answers quietly, and even as the response leaves his lips, he hates himself for the selfishness. 

"He is still your friend, Tachibana," Sousuke breathes, his arms flexing around him once more; comforting even as he wounds him. And the words hurt more than they have the right to —  _Makoto_ hurts more than he has the right to. He should be happy. He should be content. Pressing his forehead to Sousuke, he lifts a hand between them to rub at the ache blossoming indefinitely in his chest; at the cold, empty home there.

"One day, maybe, it'll be enough."

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic and my first smut, lmao. It's been a long time since I've written anything long-winded like this, so any feedback would be appreciated. Apologies for screwy tenses. I like to think I'll eventually write a sister-fic, from Sosuke's POV. Anyway, talk to me [here](http://craptain-oak.tumblr.com)!


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